Yeah... He's still saying it - in his own great way.
Great, rockin' Jackson Browne song, "Drums of War", from his 2008 CD titled "Time the Conqueror". Give it a listen - with wonderful photo and album cover retrospectives.
(copy/paste)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lc-i98oNQ5Y&feature=PlayList&p=ABA749A9A5C97C9D&index=13
Lyrics to The Drums Of War:
Roll out the drums of war
Roll up the cover of the killing floor
Roll out the drums of war
And let's speak of things worth fighting for
Roll out the drums of war
Time comes when everything you ever thought you knew
Comes crashing down and flames rise up in front of you
Roll out the drums of war
Roll back the freedoms that we struggled for
What were those freedoms for?
Let's not talk about it any more
Roll out the drums of war
Roll out the drums of war
If you know what your freedom's for
Whatever you believe the necessary course to be
Depends on who you trust to identify the enemy
Who beats the drums for war?
Even before peace is lost
Who are the profits for?
And who are they who bear the cost
When a country takes the low road to war
Who gives the orders, orders to torture?
Who gets to no bid contract the future?
Who lies, then bombs, then calls it an error?
Who makes a fortune from fighting terror?
Who is the enemy trying to crush us?
Who is the enemy of truth and justice?
Who is the enemy of peace and freedom?
Where are the courts, now when we need them?
Why is impeachment not on the table?
We better stop them while we are able
Roll out the drums of war
Roll out the drums of war
If you know what your freedom's for
Whatever you believe the necessary course to be
Depends on who you trust to identify the enemy
Who took this country to war?
Long before the peace was lost
Who are the profits for?
And who are they who bear the cost
And who lay down their lives?
And who will live with the sacrifice
Of our best and brightest hopes,
The flower of our youth,
Of freedom, and the truth?
Monday, January 12, 2009
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Children ask - Why?
The Rich - The Poor...
The Powerful - The Powerless...
Why is one child born into prosperity, comfort and opportunity,
while another is born into poverty, suffering and despair?
Has it always been so?
Must it always be so - rich and poor, powerful and powerless?
Why?
Children ask why, why, why? We give children answers that deny reality.
Sometimes we tell them there is no answer - or the equivalent - "It's God's will".
Or, some offer "Karma" as the cause and explanation for these terrible inequities.
I believe we give empty answers, not because we are evil, or wish to mislead them, but because we cannot accept the truth ourselves.
I believe there is an honest and accurate explanation... I believe that the truth is so unspeakable, that we dare not acknowledge it to ourselves, or God forbid, to speak it to our children.
Even to think it causes a painful realization of our individual and collective culpability. Even to think it wreaks havoc on our self-images, our complacency and our ability to honor "self-service" as our prime focus.
A child asks "Why are those people poor and suffering, and we are not?"
What parent could utter these words: "Darling, it's because I allow it".
The Powerful - The Powerless...
Why is one child born into prosperity, comfort and opportunity,
while another is born into poverty, suffering and despair?
Has it always been so?
Must it always be so - rich and poor, powerful and powerless?
Why?
Children ask why, why, why? We give children answers that deny reality.
Sometimes we tell them there is no answer - or the equivalent - "It's God's will".
Or, some offer "Karma" as the cause and explanation for these terrible inequities.
I believe we give empty answers, not because we are evil, or wish to mislead them, but because we cannot accept the truth ourselves.
I believe there is an honest and accurate explanation... I believe that the truth is so unspeakable, that we dare not acknowledge it to ourselves, or God forbid, to speak it to our children.
Even to think it causes a painful realization of our individual and collective culpability. Even to think it wreaks havoc on our self-images, our complacency and our ability to honor "self-service" as our prime focus.
A child asks "Why are those people poor and suffering, and we are not?"
What parent could utter these words: "Darling, it's because I allow it".
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Living on Borrowed Comfort
Borrowed Comfort...
A "credit-dollar" borrowed today - costs me two "debt-dollars" tomorrow.
A measure of "denial-comfort", borrowed today,
costs me two measures of "undeniable discomfort" tomorrow.
The interest payment, on denying an impending crisis,
is measured by the increased impact of the crisis.
The interest rate on denial-comfort never goes down - It always goes up.
Beware of compound interest.
A "credit-dollar" borrowed today - costs me two "debt-dollars" tomorrow.
A measure of "denial-comfort", borrowed today,
costs me two measures of "undeniable discomfort" tomorrow.
The interest payment, on denying an impending crisis,
is measured by the increased impact of the crisis.
The interest rate on denial-comfort never goes down - It always goes up.
Beware of compound interest.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Three Stages of Service
Three Stages in the evolution of Service.
1. Service to Self:
Gratification of Ego - Self Image/Esteem - Early in life (chronologically and/or spiritually)- the tendency to be motivated by direct ego fulfillment. A valuable form of service - a necessary step.
2. Service to Others:
Gratification of Ego - Self Image/Esteem - Purpose - Meaning - Immortality.
Adopting "service to others" as fulfillment (still ego). In most of us, still rooted in self-service/fulfillment - rewarding the self. A valuable form of service - a necessary step.
3. Service as "Way":
Service - as seamless state of being.
Service - not exceptional acts, practices or behaviors.
Service - an end unto itself.
Service - noticed, or unnoticed - irrelevant.
Service - without meaning, purpose, or reward.
Service - not driven - not drawn.
Service - without past, present or future.
Service - without intent, plan, or measure.
Service - without expectation - without disappointment.
Service - without fixed form or structure - as "Way".
Stage one is practically autonomic, is required for competent functioning as a human, and is necessary before stage two can become available as an option.
Stage two is a choice, and most often a natural outgrowth of and compliment to stage one. Stage two is important and valuable, but is not necessary for competent human function. Stage two is however, a necessary pre-requisite for stage three.
Stage three is seldom understood or experienced, yet may be essential to the survival of our species and our planet. Stage three service unfolds only of it's own accord, in it's own time and only as part of a comprehensive discipline that focuses upon acceptance of "what is". In it's purest form it cannot be described, but only experienced.
1. Service to Self:
Gratification of Ego - Self Image/Esteem - Early in life (chronologically and/or spiritually)- the tendency to be motivated by direct ego fulfillment. A valuable form of service - a necessary step.
2. Service to Others:
Gratification of Ego - Self Image/Esteem - Purpose - Meaning - Immortality.
Adopting "service to others" as fulfillment (still ego). In most of us, still rooted in self-service/fulfillment - rewarding the self. A valuable form of service - a necessary step.
3. Service as "Way":
Service - as seamless state of being.
Service - not exceptional acts, practices or behaviors.
Service - an end unto itself.
Service - noticed, or unnoticed - irrelevant.
Service - without meaning, purpose, or reward.
Service - not driven - not drawn.
Service - without past, present or future.
Service - without intent, plan, or measure.
Service - without expectation - without disappointment.
Service - without fixed form or structure - as "Way".
Stage one is practically autonomic, is required for competent functioning as a human, and is necessary before stage two can become available as an option.
Stage two is a choice, and most often a natural outgrowth of and compliment to stage one. Stage two is important and valuable, but is not necessary for competent human function. Stage two is however, a necessary pre-requisite for stage three.
Stage three is seldom understood or experienced, yet may be essential to the survival of our species and our planet. Stage three service unfolds only of it's own accord, in it's own time and only as part of a comprehensive discipline that focuses upon acceptance of "what is". In it's purest form it cannot be described, but only experienced.
Howard Zinn - December 8, 2008
Gotta copy and paste I guess...
Interesting presentation by Howard Zinn... He evaluates our current situation and looks at the prospects for the future under an Obama administration... Worth seeing.
Thank you Amy Goodman...
http://www.democracynow.org/2009/1/2/placeholder_howard_zinn
Interesting presentation by Howard Zinn... He evaluates our current situation and looks at the prospects for the future under an Obama administration... Worth seeing.
Thank you Amy Goodman...
http://www.democracynow.org/2009/1/2/placeholder_howard_zinn
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Happy Birthday Jesus
Christmas Eve 2011. For midnight prayers, the old church in the center of the park glowed warm with the light of what must have been a thousand candles.
The big man entered quietly, and was grateful to find a seat in the back, near the aisle. With half a dozen excellent rellenos and half as many cocktails in his belly, Jorge joined the prayer-service in progress.
Head bowed, eyes closed, he'd joined just in time to hear the solemn call for world peace.
He gave a reflexive nod to the concept, but war and suffering on the other side of the world weren't really his concern. In truth, Jorge gave no thought at all to world peace. His hands were full with the war and suffering in his own world - holding his own ground - keeping the wolves at bay. On a good day it was two steps forward, one step back. He hadn't seen too many good days lately. In his line of work, keeping the wolves from the door is no small achievement.
Half an hour later he rose to leave the church before the service ended. He detested obligatory chatter and intentionally avoided situations that would call for it. To Jorge, obligatory Christmas chatter merited it's own unique disdain. He stepped quietly through the doors, outside into the cold. He took a deep breath of cold air, felt the burning in his nose and lungs. It was good to be away from the humid shoulder to shoulder feeling of artificial intimacy that he felt in a church.
He stood outside for a moment, alone on the steps and checked his watch. If he hurried he'd make his rendezvous on time. Jorge knew he'd find his own peace, in a nightcap - or tonight, maybe two.
He carefully descended the slippery steps, then leaned forward, head down into an icy wind. He pushed across the park, unconsciously counting off the hundred and eleven paces to the cone of pale yellow street light that revealed his gleaming black Lincoln Navigator. For a big man, Jorge moved quickly and effortlessly through the shadows of leafless trees, aware only of the wind, the crunching of frosty-frozen grass beneath his boots - and his own troubled thoughts.
He stepped into the light, slipped into the Lincoln and settled into his pre-heated leather seat.
As the engine warmed, his eyes followed the parallel broken lines of his own foot prints, back across the icy grass, through the tree shadowed park, to the steps of the church. The stained glass windows above still shone rich and warm with candle light. Inside, he knew that with heads bowed, shoulder to shoulder, the dutiful still prayed. He sighed, relieved to no longer be among them. His breath fogged the drivers-side window. He grinned and whispered "Happy Birthday Jesus".
The big man turned up the heater and tapped the button bearing the defroster symbol. He eased the Navigator into first, checked his watch again, then pulled slowly away from the park - out of the light - into the night.
He hadn't noticed that in the back seat, just out of the rear view mirrors reach, sat a silent passenger. Jorge was not alone.
His headlights carved the image of a two-lane blacktop from the surrounding darkness. At twenty three minutes north of the church, he hadn't seen another vehicle. To be alone on this old highway was more common than not. As it was Christmas Eve, his aloneness on the road was virtually assured.
Jorge turned right, onto an unmarked dirt road. His destination, deep in the apple orchards, was a one hundred and fifteen year old, two-room adobe structure. It was known only as "The Cantina" and known to only a handful of patrons. The building stood at roughly the halfway point on a dusty one-lane road, that beyond The Cantina, looped almost aimlessly through seemingly endless orchards and opened onto a highway in the next county.
The proprietress of The Cantina, whose hair shone like polished silver was reverentially referred to as "La Viuda Plata". The Silver Widow never imposed. Her perfect expression of old-world grace and discretion generated the essence of The Cantina's unique atmosphere.
The Cantina was never closed. For her patrons, The Cantina was refuge from the world's madness. The Cantina was respite - simple elegance, warmth and security, the kind that the uncommon souls of uncommon men depend upon.
And so it had been for generations of such men - since the fathers of the fathers of The Cantina's current patrons, had themselves, been young uncommon souls.
The widow's role had, over time, afforded her considerable comforts. She'd, quietly financed seven grandchildren, and as of this Christmas Eve, eleven
great-grandchildren - through college and into positions of political authority.
Far beyond such appearances of power, the humble widow's fulfillment was in knowing that her many descendants, her progeny, her star seeds, were rooted deeply within the unseen, first sphere of power and influence - the cadre of beings that create human reality.
Jorge turned left, from the dirt road and onto the long, dust covered flagstone driveway that led to The Cantina. He was rolling to a stop near the front door and saw between barren trees, the unusually muted lights in the windows.
He didn't realize that in this instant, he was rolling through an invisible opening, passing through a tear in the fabric of time and space that forms the collective human perception of what we call "reality".
He didn't realize that when he opened the door of the Navigator
he'd step into a drastically altered version of reality - A version from which he would never return.
Jorge would realize however, in the next few moments, that he was not alone.
The big man entered quietly, and was grateful to find a seat in the back, near the aisle. With half a dozen excellent rellenos and half as many cocktails in his belly, Jorge joined the prayer-service in progress.
Head bowed, eyes closed, he'd joined just in time to hear the solemn call for world peace.
He gave a reflexive nod to the concept, but war and suffering on the other side of the world weren't really his concern. In truth, Jorge gave no thought at all to world peace. His hands were full with the war and suffering in his own world - holding his own ground - keeping the wolves at bay. On a good day it was two steps forward, one step back. He hadn't seen too many good days lately. In his line of work, keeping the wolves from the door is no small achievement.
Half an hour later he rose to leave the church before the service ended. He detested obligatory chatter and intentionally avoided situations that would call for it. To Jorge, obligatory Christmas chatter merited it's own unique disdain. He stepped quietly through the doors, outside into the cold. He took a deep breath of cold air, felt the burning in his nose and lungs. It was good to be away from the humid shoulder to shoulder feeling of artificial intimacy that he felt in a church.
He stood outside for a moment, alone on the steps and checked his watch. If he hurried he'd make his rendezvous on time. Jorge knew he'd find his own peace, in a nightcap - or tonight, maybe two.
He carefully descended the slippery steps, then leaned forward, head down into an icy wind. He pushed across the park, unconsciously counting off the hundred and eleven paces to the cone of pale yellow street light that revealed his gleaming black Lincoln Navigator. For a big man, Jorge moved quickly and effortlessly through the shadows of leafless trees, aware only of the wind, the crunching of frosty-frozen grass beneath his boots - and his own troubled thoughts.
He stepped into the light, slipped into the Lincoln and settled into his pre-heated leather seat.
As the engine warmed, his eyes followed the parallel broken lines of his own foot prints, back across the icy grass, through the tree shadowed park, to the steps of the church. The stained glass windows above still shone rich and warm with candle light. Inside, he knew that with heads bowed, shoulder to shoulder, the dutiful still prayed. He sighed, relieved to no longer be among them. His breath fogged the drivers-side window. He grinned and whispered "Happy Birthday Jesus".
The big man turned up the heater and tapped the button bearing the defroster symbol. He eased the Navigator into first, checked his watch again, then pulled slowly away from the park - out of the light - into the night.
He hadn't noticed that in the back seat, just out of the rear view mirrors reach, sat a silent passenger. Jorge was not alone.
His headlights carved the image of a two-lane blacktop from the surrounding darkness. At twenty three minutes north of the church, he hadn't seen another vehicle. To be alone on this old highway was more common than not. As it was Christmas Eve, his aloneness on the road was virtually assured.
Jorge turned right, onto an unmarked dirt road. His destination, deep in the apple orchards, was a one hundred and fifteen year old, two-room adobe structure. It was known only as "The Cantina" and known to only a handful of patrons. The building stood at roughly the halfway point on a dusty one-lane road, that beyond The Cantina, looped almost aimlessly through seemingly endless orchards and opened onto a highway in the next county.
The proprietress of The Cantina, whose hair shone like polished silver was reverentially referred to as "La Viuda Plata". The Silver Widow never imposed. Her perfect expression of old-world grace and discretion generated the essence of The Cantina's unique atmosphere.
The Cantina was never closed. For her patrons, The Cantina was refuge from the world's madness. The Cantina was respite - simple elegance, warmth and security, the kind that the uncommon souls of uncommon men depend upon.
And so it had been for generations of such men - since the fathers of the fathers of The Cantina's current patrons, had themselves, been young uncommon souls.
The widow's role had, over time, afforded her considerable comforts. She'd, quietly financed seven grandchildren, and as of this Christmas Eve, eleven
great-grandchildren - through college and into positions of political authority.
Far beyond such appearances of power, the humble widow's fulfillment was in knowing that her many descendants, her progeny, her star seeds, were rooted deeply within the unseen, first sphere of power and influence - the cadre of beings that create human reality.
Jorge turned left, from the dirt road and onto the long, dust covered flagstone driveway that led to The Cantina. He was rolling to a stop near the front door and saw between barren trees, the unusually muted lights in the windows.
He didn't realize that in this instant, he was rolling through an invisible opening, passing through a tear in the fabric of time and space that forms the collective human perception of what we call "reality".
He didn't realize that when he opened the door of the Navigator
he'd step into a drastically altered version of reality - A version from which he would never return.
Jorge would realize however, in the next few moments, that he was not alone.
Utah Phillips
Utah Phillips died in 2008. Often called "The Golden Voice of The Great Southwest", he was an articulate spokesman, social activist, singer, songwriter and storyteller. This is a link to a Democracy Now video of Amy Goodman interviewing him in 2004.
http://www.democracynow.org/shows/2009/1/1
I guess you have to copy and paste this, as I don't know how to put a "click on" link here.
The following text is the Official Obituary of Utah Phillips....
The official Obituary as provided by the family. May 24, 2008
"Folksinger, Storyteller, Railroad Tramp Utah Phillips Dead at 73"
Nevada City, California:
Utah Phillips, a seminal figure in American folk music who performed extensively and tirelessly for audiences on two continents for 38 years, died Friday of congestive heart failure in Nevada City, California a small town in the Sierra Nevada mountains where he lived for the last 21 years with his wife, Joanna Robinson, a freelance editor.
Born Bruce Duncan Phillips on May 15, 1935 in Cleveland, Ohio, he was the son of labor organizers. Whether through this early influence or an early life that was not always tranquil or easy, by his twenties Phillips demonstrated a lifelong concern with the living conditions of working people. He was a proud member of the Industrial Workers of the World, popularly known as "the Wobblies," an organizational artifact of early twentieth-century labor struggles that has seen renewed interest and growth in membership in the last decade, not in small part due to his efforts to popularize it.
Phillips served as an Army private during the Korean War, an experience he would later refer to as the turning point of his life. Deeply affected by the devastation and human misery he had witnessed, upon his return to the United States he began drifting, riding freight trains around the country. His struggle would be familiar today, when the difficulties of returning combat veterans are more widely understood, but in the late fifties Phillips was left to work them out for himself. Destitute and drinking, Phillips got off a freight train in Salt Lake City and wound up at the Joe Hill House, a homeless shelter operated by the anarchist Ammon Hennacy, a member of the Catholic Worker movement and associate of Dorothy Day.
Phillips credited Hennacy and other social reformers he referred to as his "elders" with having provided a philosophical framework around which he later constructed songs and stories he intended as a template his audiences could employ to understand their own political and working lives. They were often hilarious, sometimes sad, but never shallow.
"He made me understand that music must be more than cotton candy for the ears," said John McCutcheon, a nationally-known folksinger and close friend.
In the creation of his performing persona and work, Phillips drew from influences as diverse as Borscht Belt comedian Myron Cohen, folksingers Woody Guthrie and Pete Seeger, and Country stars Hank Williams and T. Texas Tyler.
A stint as an archivist for the State of Utah in the 1960s taught Phillips the discipline of historical research; beneath the simplest and most folksy of his songs was a rigorous attention to detail and a strong and carefully-crafted narrative structure. He was a voracious reader in a surprising variety of fields.
Meanwhile, Phillips was working at Hennacy's Joe Hill house. In 1968 he ran for a seat in the U.S. Senate on the Peace and Freedom Party ticket. The race was won by a Republican candidate, and Phillips was seen by some Democrats as having split the vote. He subsequently lost his job with the State of Utah, a process he described as "blacklisting."
Phillips left Utah for Saratoga Springs, New York, where he was welcomed into a lively community of folk performers centered at the Caffé Lena, operated by Lena Spencer.
"It was the coffeehouse, the place to perform. Everybody went there. She fed everybody," said John "Che" Greenwood, a fellow performer and friend.
Over the span of the nearly four decades that followed, Phillips worked in what he referred to as "the Trade," developing an audience of hundreds of thousands and performing in large and small cities throughout the United States, Canada, and Europe. His performing partners included Rosalie Sorrels, Kate Wolf, John McCutcheon and Ani DiFranco.
"He was like an alchemist," said Sorrels, "He took the stories of working people and railroad bums and he built them into work that was influenced by writers like Thomas Wolfe, but then he gave it back, he put it in language so the people whom the songs and stories were about still had them, still owned them. He didn't believe in stealing culture from the people it was about."
A single from Phillips's first record, "Moose Turd Pie," a rollicking story about working on a railroad track gang, saw extensive airplay in 1973. From then on, Phillips had work on the road. His extensive writing and recording career included two albums with Ani DiFranco which earned a Grammy nomination. Phillips's songs were performed and recorded by Emmylou Harris, Waylon Jennings, Joan Baez, Tom Waits, Joe Ely and others. He was awarded a Lifetime Achievement Award by the Folk Alliance in 1997.
Phillips, something of a perfectionist, claimed that he never lost his stage fright before performances. He didn't want to lose it, he said; it kept him improving.
Phillips began suffering from the effects of chronic heart disease in 2004, and as his illness kept him off the road at times, he started a nationally syndicated folk-music radio show, "Loafer's Glory," produced at KVMR-FM and started a homeless shelter in his rural home county, where down-on-their-luck men and women were sleeping under the manzanita brush at the edge of town. Hospitality House opened in 2005 and continues to house 25 to 30 guests a night. In this way, Phillips returned to the work of his mentor Hennacy in the last four years of his life.
Phillips died at home, in bed, in his sleep, next to his wife. He is survived by his son Duncan and daughter-in-law Bobette of Salt Lake City, son Brendan of Olympia, Washington; daughter Morrigan Belle of Washington, D.C.; stepson Nicholas Tomb of Monterrey, California; stepson and daughter-in-law Ian Durfee and Mary Creasey of Davis, California; brothers David Phillips of Fairfield, California, Ed Phillips of Cleveland, Ohio and Stuart Cohen of Los Angeles; sister Deborah Cohen of Lisbon, Portugal; and a grandchild, Brendan. He was preceded in death by his father Edwin Phillips and mother Kathleen, and his stepfather, Syd Cohen.
The family requests memorial donations to Hospitality House, P.O. Box 3223, Grass Valley, California 95945 (530) 271-7144 www.hospitalityhouseshelter.org
-Jordan Fisher Smith and Molly Fisk (Molly Fisk, 530.277.4686 molly@mollyfisk.com Jordan Fisher Smith 530.277.3087 jordanfs@gv.net)
http://www.democracynow.org/shows/2009/1/1
I guess you have to copy and paste this, as I don't know how to put a "click on" link here.
The following text is the Official Obituary of Utah Phillips....
The official Obituary as provided by the family. May 24, 2008
"Folksinger, Storyteller, Railroad Tramp Utah Phillips Dead at 73"
Nevada City, California:
Utah Phillips, a seminal figure in American folk music who performed extensively and tirelessly for audiences on two continents for 38 years, died Friday of congestive heart failure in Nevada City, California a small town in the Sierra Nevada mountains where he lived for the last 21 years with his wife, Joanna Robinson, a freelance editor.
Born Bruce Duncan Phillips on May 15, 1935 in Cleveland, Ohio, he was the son of labor organizers. Whether through this early influence or an early life that was not always tranquil or easy, by his twenties Phillips demonstrated a lifelong concern with the living conditions of working people. He was a proud member of the Industrial Workers of the World, popularly known as "the Wobblies," an organizational artifact of early twentieth-century labor struggles that has seen renewed interest and growth in membership in the last decade, not in small part due to his efforts to popularize it.
Phillips served as an Army private during the Korean War, an experience he would later refer to as the turning point of his life. Deeply affected by the devastation and human misery he had witnessed, upon his return to the United States he began drifting, riding freight trains around the country. His struggle would be familiar today, when the difficulties of returning combat veterans are more widely understood, but in the late fifties Phillips was left to work them out for himself. Destitute and drinking, Phillips got off a freight train in Salt Lake City and wound up at the Joe Hill House, a homeless shelter operated by the anarchist Ammon Hennacy, a member of the Catholic Worker movement and associate of Dorothy Day.
Phillips credited Hennacy and other social reformers he referred to as his "elders" with having provided a philosophical framework around which he later constructed songs and stories he intended as a template his audiences could employ to understand their own political and working lives. They were often hilarious, sometimes sad, but never shallow.
"He made me understand that music must be more than cotton candy for the ears," said John McCutcheon, a nationally-known folksinger and close friend.
In the creation of his performing persona and work, Phillips drew from influences as diverse as Borscht Belt comedian Myron Cohen, folksingers Woody Guthrie and Pete Seeger, and Country stars Hank Williams and T. Texas Tyler.
A stint as an archivist for the State of Utah in the 1960s taught Phillips the discipline of historical research; beneath the simplest and most folksy of his songs was a rigorous attention to detail and a strong and carefully-crafted narrative structure. He was a voracious reader in a surprising variety of fields.
Meanwhile, Phillips was working at Hennacy's Joe Hill house. In 1968 he ran for a seat in the U.S. Senate on the Peace and Freedom Party ticket. The race was won by a Republican candidate, and Phillips was seen by some Democrats as having split the vote. He subsequently lost his job with the State of Utah, a process he described as "blacklisting."
Phillips left Utah for Saratoga Springs, New York, where he was welcomed into a lively community of folk performers centered at the Caffé Lena, operated by Lena Spencer.
"It was the coffeehouse, the place to perform. Everybody went there. She fed everybody," said John "Che" Greenwood, a fellow performer and friend.
Over the span of the nearly four decades that followed, Phillips worked in what he referred to as "the Trade," developing an audience of hundreds of thousands and performing in large and small cities throughout the United States, Canada, and Europe. His performing partners included Rosalie Sorrels, Kate Wolf, John McCutcheon and Ani DiFranco.
"He was like an alchemist," said Sorrels, "He took the stories of working people and railroad bums and he built them into work that was influenced by writers like Thomas Wolfe, but then he gave it back, he put it in language so the people whom the songs and stories were about still had them, still owned them. He didn't believe in stealing culture from the people it was about."
A single from Phillips's first record, "Moose Turd Pie," a rollicking story about working on a railroad track gang, saw extensive airplay in 1973. From then on, Phillips had work on the road. His extensive writing and recording career included two albums with Ani DiFranco which earned a Grammy nomination. Phillips's songs were performed and recorded by Emmylou Harris, Waylon Jennings, Joan Baez, Tom Waits, Joe Ely and others. He was awarded a Lifetime Achievement Award by the Folk Alliance in 1997.
Phillips, something of a perfectionist, claimed that he never lost his stage fright before performances. He didn't want to lose it, he said; it kept him improving.
Phillips began suffering from the effects of chronic heart disease in 2004, and as his illness kept him off the road at times, he started a nationally syndicated folk-music radio show, "Loafer's Glory," produced at KVMR-FM and started a homeless shelter in his rural home county, where down-on-their-luck men and women were sleeping under the manzanita brush at the edge of town. Hospitality House opened in 2005 and continues to house 25 to 30 guests a night. In this way, Phillips returned to the work of his mentor Hennacy in the last four years of his life.
Phillips died at home, in bed, in his sleep, next to his wife. He is survived by his son Duncan and daughter-in-law Bobette of Salt Lake City, son Brendan of Olympia, Washington; daughter Morrigan Belle of Washington, D.C.; stepson Nicholas Tomb of Monterrey, California; stepson and daughter-in-law Ian Durfee and Mary Creasey of Davis, California; brothers David Phillips of Fairfield, California, Ed Phillips of Cleveland, Ohio and Stuart Cohen of Los Angeles; sister Deborah Cohen of Lisbon, Portugal; and a grandchild, Brendan. He was preceded in death by his father Edwin Phillips and mother Kathleen, and his stepfather, Syd Cohen.
The family requests memorial donations to Hospitality House, P.O. Box 3223, Grass Valley, California 95945 (530) 271-7144 www.hospitalityhouseshelter.org
-Jordan Fisher Smith and Molly Fisk (Molly Fisk, 530.277.4686 molly@mollyfisk.com Jordan Fisher Smith 530.277.3087 jordanfs@gv.net)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)